Julie kicked the door shut behind her‚ tossed her keys on the desk and headed for the refrigerator. She grabbed a Coke and a piece of left-over chicken and then stood at the sink eating the cold chicken with her fingers. She gazed out the window at the incredibly warm and sunny winter day. She longed to spend the afternoon with her boyfriend but her last assignment waited and it was due tonight. She felt the time slipping away quickly‚ as if a bomb were about to go off. She sighed‚ threw the chicken
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spoken to Bokonon since the encounter on the side of the road. Bokonon was glamorized by the San Lorenzo community. He was selfish and made it clear that he was superior to everyone else. For some reason people believed the moronic fomas that were written in The Books of Bokonon. Bokonon was not in my karass. I would not allow him to be; especially after making people kill themselves because he had no better options.
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Before we begin‚ understand that I am recording this in sheer desperation to retain my memories. I have terribly rotten‚ bad luck. Ever since I was three my life has gone extremely wrong. When I was three it came for me. A giant bronze and silver eagle swooped down from the sky and besieged me. I later realized that this eagle was sent by Zeus and its proper name is the Caucasian Eagle. The eagle was sent to kill me‚ but was soon deemed an impossible task for the beast. The beast for some unknown
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Winchell nervously looks at the clock on the wall‚ which is directly in front of him‚ peers through the glass panel at his left into the engineer´s booth‚ and then glances around the room. It is thirty seconds to nine. A studio visitor‚ seated in one of the four chairs alongside the wall‚ coughs‚ and Winchell looks up anxiously‚ He reaches for the water pitcher‚ fills a paper cup‚ and takes a quick swallow. The buzzer sounds on the keyboard in front of the announcer as the engineer signals fifteen
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doesn’t speak much. I catch his eye and smile politely. He smiles back....an embarrassed/ uncomfortable smile. He’s about to insert needles into my ankle. I sit up‚ facing him. My legs‚ together‚ dangle off the edge of the table. I’m wearing blue shorts. I place my hands on either knee and slowly move my legs apart‚ looking downward with no expression the whole time. Although his eyes widen a little‚ he only looks at me. He moves back one step. With my hands still on either knee‚ I smile at him.
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the ground‚’ Nero observes to SH as they are being bundled ever further down a winding tunnel. From somewhere the MC’s voice‚ ‘Look‚ we wanted some razz-matazz out there tonight‚ but things are not really working out. You’ve at least discovered that Story Hunter is not dead meat.’ With frustration shining through in voice SH complains‚ ‘Yeah‚ it is all well and good to have found me‚ but now we have lost Buiteboer to the netherworld‚ it seems.’ The MC sounds unconcerned about Buiteboer’s whereabouts
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pinkish-red one said calmly. “A bear?!” the tall‚ thin one and short round purple gems shouted in unison. “What if it hurts us? What if it hurts Steven?!” the thin one shouted back. Again with the steven? Whats up with him? Is he special or something? Soda thought. The branch that soda was on started to crack more. She tried with all her might to not let it fall‚ she even used her powers to attempt to hold it up; but alas‚ her trying cut short‚ and she fell to the ground. Fast. “ACK!” The blue gem shouted
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She had to ask the janitor to help her propel the cart‚ which was holding the tombstone‚ into the classroom. The tomb stop was ivory and had neatly written calligraphy with the person’s name‚ date of their birth‚ and the date f their birth‚ on was a quote. "This is a reputation of one of the most expensive or superlative graves made in the late 1800’s." The teacher had announced‚ as she pointed to
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Betrayal of Freedom Here I am again; working for another rich family to do their labour. I hate having no freedom. I have been owned by different rich families ever since I was born. I am now 16‚ 17 in a month‚ I think. I kind of lose track. I never met my parents. They were slaves for other folks so I guess I won’t ever get to meet them. I don’t get jealous of the rich families though. They got no respect; the young spoilt‚ spiteful children treat me like a piece of shit on their shoe. I can’t do
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to the racist nature of the Europeans who colonized Canada. The main character in the story‚ Big Tom‚ appears physically and mentally worn out by his life. At the beginning of the story‚ the reader gets a sense of bitterness with how he perceives his life. Despite living in poverty‚ he appears to be a caring father. The reader senses Big Tom grappling with his Native identity when he tells his infant son a story: “his voice slid awkwardly through the ageless folktale of his people”. It is as if Big
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